What have we to offer the world beside the superabundant loot which we recklessly plunder from the earth under the maniacal delusion that this insane activity represents progress and enlightenment?

When I reflect that the task which the artist implicitly sets himself is to overthrow existing values, to make of the chaos about him an order which is his own, to sow strife and ferment so that by the emotional release those who are dead may be restored to life, then it is that I run with joy to the great and imperfect ones, their confusion nourishes me, their stuttering is like divine music to my ears.

Madness is tonic and invigorating. It makes the sane more sane. The only ones who are unable to profit by it are the insane.

True strength lies in submission which permits one to dedicate his life, through devotion, to something beyond himself.

We should not stop to reflect, compare, analyze, possess, but flow on and through, endlessly, like music.

My understanding of the meaning of a book is that the book itself disappears from sight, that it is chewed alive, digested and incorporated into the system as flesh and blood which in turn creates new spirit and reshapes the world.

Until we accept the fact that life itself is founded in mystery, we shall learn nothing.